


The Prince and the Queen

by WendyNerd



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Queen in the North, Unbeta'd, Winterfell belongs to my sister Sansa, she's good at it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 15:23:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8107621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendyNerd/pseuds/WendyNerd
Summary: "She is the reason that battle was won. She is the reason all of you are here now, promising your metal and loyalties the moment it is safe to.” Jon doesn't want the crown. Sansa doesn't want to wear hers alone.





	

**Author's Note:**

> another promptfill requested for archive!

Through the din the lords create, their called-upon king stands. He looks at her for a moment, and Sansa forces a smile onto her face. He doesn’t smile back, and instead holds up his hands for silence.

It takes a little while, but the cheering quiets. Jon looks around the room and takes a deep breath. “You say that I saved the North, that I avenged the Red Wedding. I did no such things.”

There are audible gasps from the hall. Sansa’s is one of them. What is he doing?! Little Lyanna Mormont, who had remained standing, now takes her seat. Jon sighs.

“The Red Wedding was orchestrated by the Lannisters, the Freys, and Lord Roose Bolton. Lord Roose died by the hand of his son, who in turn died at the hand of my sister. The Freys and Lannisters still live. The North is not safe, not until our enemy beyond the Wall is vanquished. And while I hope my warnings to you shall aid in saving us from the White Walkers, I cannot be sure of that.”

“But you saved us from the Boltons!” Lady Mormont cries out. Cries of agreement echo through the hall. But Jon raises his hands again, and shakes his head.

“I almost abandoned all of you. After I was brought back, I intended to leave. The only reason I ultimately fought Ramsay Bolton is because my sister convinced me to. If I had my way, my lords and ladies, Sansa and I would be in Volantis or Myr or Dorne, leaving you all unwarned, unquided, under the rule of that monster Ramsay Bolton.” Jon looks at Sansa. “She ultimately got me to fight, and she—“

“—Married a Lannister AND a Bolton!” Lord Glover cries out, “What’s next, a Frey?!”

Sansa flinches and shrinks back. Jon shakes, fixing his eyes on Lord Glover with a look filthier and more hateful than Sansa could have guessed him capable of.

“She was forced into wedding these men, as a captive, sold off for her rights to Winterfell. You dare speak ill of her for the torment she’s suffered at the hands of our enemies? When she was a child, no less? She was abused and used by these people personally and still escaped and resolved to fight them while you were hiding in Deepwood Motte. All of you hid away as Ned Stark’s daughter was violated and tormented in her own home by the son of your king’s killer! And now you dare judge her, of all people, for the indignities she’s suffered? You are as foul as the enemies we’ve vanquished. I ought to cut you down where you stand.”

An abused young girl had more strength, honor, and courage than any of you. And, ultimately, she’s had more to offer. The Boltons butchered members of your family, subjected you to their tyranny, and the only people to do anything were the little girls. The only reason the man who flayed Lord and Lady Cerwyn alive is not ruling you now is because my sister fetched us an army to do away with the Bolton forces. She is the reason that battle was won. She is the reason all of you are here now, promising your metal and loyalties the moment it is safe to.”

Sansa feels her heart swell and her stomach flip. No one has spoken of her this way, ever. The closest anyone has come was Tyrion when he stopped Joffrey’s beating. But even then, it was all about her being destined to be Joffrey’s queen, about what the Lannisters needed. It was never about what she had done, why she mattered.

Jon leans forward against the high table, fights clutching the edge tightly, face red with fury. He glares around at them all.

“She spoke for you all, before we left Castle Black. She believed you all loyal, even after months of being locked away in a tower, being raped upon her parents’ bed. Possibly the only trueborn child of Eddard Stark that still remains. And she, a young woman with no battle training, believed better of you all. And you proved her wrong. So she rode off in the middle of the night alone to fetch another army and saved us all anyways. When I wanted to flee, she resolved to fight. When you all insisted on hiding away, she found another way to save you from a monster willing to flay people alive for not paying taxes. Do you think Ramsay Bolton would have treated you well in winter? It has come, my lords, and the only reason you’re not facing it with a lord who would have demanded all your stores for himself and mutilated all who defied him is because of her!” He points to her furiously. “Sansa Stark, who has reclaimed what was lost. Who has suffered more for the land we stand on in the last year than any of you have in your entire lives. And your response is to deny her all that she’s fought for and earned and look down on her for the horrors our enemies subjected her to? By all rights, you should be kneeling before her and proclaiming her your queen, by virtue of birth and conquest. She won back the North, she has avenged her family, she is the reason all of us are here.”

There is silence. Everyone is still until Jon sits back in his chair, glowering. He looks at her again.

Sansa shakes slightly as she stands. She looks around the room at the stone-faced lords around her. “I believe my half-brother wishes to say that though he is flattered by your praise, he feels he must decline the honor you offer him.”

Jon snorts. “‘Honor’ indeed. I have no interest in ruling yet more disloyal men. I died doing that once already,” Jon says, scowling, “I’ll fight for you, I’ll fight for our home, I’ll fight for the Free Folk who stood by us, for Lady Mormont, and I’ll fight for all the poor common sods in the North who have so-called men like this for lords. But kings die like flies and have done little good for anyone recently. Perhaps a queen may do better.”

Sansa reddens. “I don’t—“

“—Queen in the North!” Lady Mormont cries out all of a sudden, “Queen in the North!”

Lord Royce joins her, followed by Tormund Giantsbane, followed by Lord Cerwyn, then Lord Manderly, then Lords Forrester, Ryswell, Flint, and Magnar. The chant continues to grow in volume until the Great Hall shakes with it.

Sansa finds Littlefinger in the corner. He himself cries it out. But he doesn’t look thrilled. And Sansa knows why. I am truly beyond your grasp now, she thinks, and you were wrong about Jon.

That, perhaps above all else, makes her happy. He turned down a crown for her. He sees her as a savior. She’d feared he’d hate her for not telling him about the Vale army, but he truly forgives her. After years of living with the bastard stain, he gave up the chance to take all that was ever supposed to be denied him, for her.

The moment of truth had come. Jon proved himself. Proved she could truly trust him. She can trust him. She has someone. Someone who cares more for her than their own ambitions. She’s safe, truly safe.

They were naming her queen, not out of fear, but out of shame. Because she earned it. And Littlefinger was wrong. She holds up her hands for silence and waits for the room to quiet.

“I thank you all for this honor, and I accept. I vow that I shall do everything possible to protect you and rule to the best of my abilities.” She hesitates then, and takes a deep breath. This is not a role she was ever prepared for. She was meant to be a queen, yes, but the sort that sits beside the throne, not on it. She was supposed to be a consort, not a sovereign. She wracks her brain for all she knows of the proper traditions, both royal and Northern, expected of a monarch. But the Kings of Winter were so long ago, and she has no way of knowing what Robb did when he was declared King in the North. …And of the Trident, she remembers. Her eyes go to the Vale Lords. They were calling her a queen as well. But Robin wasn’t here. Nor were the rest of the Lords of the Vale. And the Riverlands… Her Uncle Blackfish and his army were vanquished, Riverrun was taken, and Uncle Edmure and his son were captives. But Littlefinger is Lord of Harrenhal and Lord Paramount of the Riverlands by Joffrey’s decree, she reminds herself.

The situation is tricky. She must keep Littlefinger around, that’s for sure. But there’s more to do.

She glances at Jon and gestures for him to stand. He does, looking confused. But she smiles.

“I know you are reluctant to take a crown now, Brother,” she says, taking his hand in hers, “But I meant what I said on the ramparts yesterday. You are a Stark to me. To insure the security of my realm, I require heirs. Rickon is dead, and we have no way of knowing where Bran and Arya are, or if they’re still alive. So I would ask you to be Jon Stark, Prince of Winterfell, to inherit should I die without issue.”

He smiles slightly. “If that is what my queen asks of me, then I accept.”

She’d hoped he would, for multiple reasons. Some that perhaps he’d find objectionable later, but they’ll discuss it when they are alone.

Sansa turns back to her subjects. “There are many matters to attend to at once, particularly concerning the status of our Valemen and Free Folk friends, and the properties of the traitors Bolton, Umber, and Karstark. In addition to that, we must prepare for war. And to do that, I shall require a proper small council.”

An anxious flutter ripples through the hall, and Sansa tries not to smirk. All eyes are now alight with ambition. Oh yes, she thinks, you all have much to gain from me. Every single one of you.

She smiles. “I am only a young woman, after all. I am no warrior. But you all seemed very keen on making my brother Jon a king. I suppose it fits to make him the next best thing and appoint him as Hand. Brother, who would you recommend?”

He grunts. “The same people who have stood by us from the beginning. Tormund, Davos…”

“A very small council indeed,” she chuckles, “But I’m afraid I shall need more guidance than that. I know your opinions of our lords are not the highest, but we shall require the services of the wisest among them. I suppose I’ll have to discern who those are, exactly.”

She looks about the hall again. “But before I do so… I must take a couple of meetings. Jon, Ser Davos, Lord Tormund, would you join me in my solar? And Lord Royce?”

“Aye, Your Grace?!” He asks, surprised.

“Would you be so kind as to join us for supper in my chambers?”

“It would be an honor!”

Sansa can feel Littlefinger’s eyes burning into her. But she ignores him and looks about the room.

“In the meantime, my lords, I would feast with you tomorrow night to celebrate the reformation of our realm. But considering the challenges that await us, I think it best if I know the exact state the North is in. I ask you all to draft reports of the state of your territories: population, revenue, harvests, resources, military strength, trade agreements, notable events, surveys, finances, particular misfortunes currently afflicting your lands, as well as any requests, suggestions, and remarks you may have. I shall be reviewing Lord Roose’s books on the matter, of course, and look upon yours. I think it should aid me in selecting the proper advisors.”

“Your Grace! If I may!” Lord Manderly steps forward. “Pardon the interruption, Madam, but I must ask you: what of the territories of the traitors? The Dreadfort, Karhold, Last Hearth?”

Sansa smiles. “Well, as the widow of the last surviving member of House Bolton, I do have a personal claim on the Dreadfort and the Bolton lands. In general, I declare all of those lands property of the crown until I can discern the proper fate for them. The opinions of my advisors shall factor into my decisions. These lands shall need lords or ladies, and I will have to evaluate which men or women are best to be trusted with the responsibility of their rule.”

There are whispers. Sansa grins wider. I hold all of the honey, and all of you shall have to fight for a taste.

“I declare this court dismissed for the time being.” She looks at her brother again. “Jon, shall we?”

“Aye.” He offers her his arm, and she gladly takes it. He escorts her out of the Great Hall and Sansa takes these precious moments alone to throw her arms about his neck and kiss his cheek.

“Thank you,” she sighs, “I will always trust you, I swear it.”

Moments later, Tormund and Davos have joined them, and they adjourn to the lord’s solar. Sansa looks about the room as they enter. The chamber where her mother taught her to stitch, where Father told them stories before bed. Jon, as he said, had prepared them for habitation, but she sees few signs of the rooms she remembers.

Jon had exaggerated when he said she was raped upon her parents’ bed. Lord Roose and Lady Walda had occupied these rooms while Ramsay, as erstwhile heir, and Sansa had taken Robb’s old chambers. It was upon Robb’s bed that she was violated.

Lord Roose had clearly done away with mother’s tapestry depicting Riverrun, the portraits of Father’s parents, Lord Rickard and Lady Lyarra. He’d gotten rid of the comfortable, cushioned sofas on which she and her siblings used to huddle. And the wolf-shaped candlesticks. Though the hangings in the half-circle chamber are Stark ones, Sansa can tell they are not the same as the ones her parents used.

There is a large map table in the middle of the room, with wooden chairs about it. And she bids them all to take seats there. There’s some awkward silence and Sansa realizes they’re waiting for her to speak.

“It… It seems to me that there are a number of events that we must prepare for as urgently as possible. The first and foremost of course being the scourge of the White Walkers, the second being the winter, the third being the formation and security of our borders, which may or may not include the Vale and Riverlands, the fourth being the possibility of my younger siblings’ return, and the fifth being possible conflict with the southern crown.”

“Agreed,” replies Jon as Tormund and Davos both nod. Sansa swallows.

“It seems to me that when it comes to our enemy to the North, we shall have no chance unless we embrace an alliance with the Free Folk and officially welcome you to our borders,” she says, eyeing Tormund, “Many of your people have seen them, fought them, know them. But obviously a joining of our people shall be easier said than done. The Northerners are wary of you, this would cause a population influx that would strain our winter stores, and you all have a history of not accepting a ruler you haven’t chosen. You don’t want to be…. What is it you call us?”

“Kneelers.” Tormund grunts. Sansa nods.

“But at this point, I can’t have my authority defied, especially if I welcome you to our lands. You took up the cry and named me queen, but from what Jon says of you, that does not make me a queen to the Free Folk at large.”

“No. They fought for Jon after a group of us agreed, and I have my influence, but I do not speak for all of us.”

Sansa nods. “Your people are settled in the New Gift. But that’s the first and most vulnerable stretch of land in the North, especially if, the gods forbid, some of those monsters make it past the Wall, which is severely disadvantaged. Your current settlements have no proper holdfasts, no proper structural defenses. You would do much better with land that includes such structures. I would propose giving the Free Folk Last Hearth, the land of the Umbers. Last Hearth was built to resist the scourge of the White Walkers, it is a large stretch of land, and the family that rules it are traitors. I would be willing to grant Last Hearth to the Free Folk with a Lord or Lady of their choice, under the conditions that they obey our laws, fight with us in the upcoming war, and that whichever lord or lady they choose agree to marriage to a son or daughter of House Umber, either for themselves or their heir. The current residents of those lands would also have to be treated well, of course. I will not make anyone kneel, but anyone who wished to live there would have to acknowledge me as their queen.”

“And those who would not agree?”

“They remain in their settlements in the New Gift, unmolested as long as they extend that same courtesy to me and my people. I also offer places for the Free Folk in my household here, provided they do, in fact, kneel. But those who refuse to obey our laws or ally with us shall be on their own. They can stay where they are, but they shall not receive aid or support in the coming years. Do you think your people can accept these terms?”

Tormund shifts uneasily. “Many might. They might take issue with setting up a new lordly House here as well. They want to pick their leaders in all the years to come, not just the sons of whomever they pick now.”

“I might be able to negotiate on that score.”

For the last few minutes, Jon had told her everything he knew of the Free Folk. At the time, she thought it was merely so that she might make friends among their numbers, or at the very least not alienate any of them. But now, she suspects there was another motive to his lectures to her. She exchanges a look with her brother. He seems pleased.

Sansa takes a deep breath. “We shall also need to settle the matter of the succession quickly. Bran and Arya both may still be alive. I am queen now, but Bran is a true born son…”

“..I considered that,” Jon cuts in, “Which is why I mentioned the right of conquest in my speech to the lords, and why I was so eager for you to move into these rooms as soon as possible. Bran is still a boy, underage, and a crippled one at that. He is unlikely to be able to sure children with his condition, and wherever he’s been in the last few years, I doubt he’s been getting the proper education he’d need to rule Winterfell on his own.”

“He was acting Lord when Robb was at war,” Sansa reminds him.

“And that was when this place was sacked by the Ironborn,” says Davos.

Sansa flinches, offended on her brother’s behalf. “All the men were either in the South with Robb, or they had followed Ser Rodrick to Torrhen’s square to fend off attackers. Theon tricked them. And he was only a boy. That was the fault of the adults, not Bran.”

“I don’t doubt that, Your Grace,” the former smuggler says, “But regardless, Winterfell and its fate then was ultimately not in the hands of your little brother. And as Prince Jon says, with his condition, Brandon is unlikely to sire heirs. Ultimately, the North shall be continued through your line anyways.”

“I intend to remain queen should my younger brother return,” Sansa replies, “for all of the reasons listed. But there are others who will not feel the same way and see an opportunity in his return. So I have to take measures to prepare for that. The last thing this country needs is another power struggle. So I would propose drafting an edict and oath for our vassals to serve me as queen until my death or abdication, and to honor the succession laws we establish now. It shall not be only my status that may be called into question, but Jon’s as well.”

“I do not wish to take anything from Bran,” Jon says quickly, “If he returns, he should supplant me.”

She was afraid he’d say that. “Jon, I’d prefer that you remain my heir until I have a child. I want my first act as queen to be maintained, and I want an heir who can take up governance immediately and produce children. In fact…” She takes a deep breath, hating herself. “My ideal situation would be for Bran to be placed at the end of the line of succession.”

“What?!” Jon looks shocked.

Sansa lowers her head. “Arya is older than Bran, presumably capable of having children someday. And I am a woman. Establishing a Dornish-style royal succession would better cement my hold on the throne. If I favor Bran over Arya, it will continue the line of preference for kings over queens. And you cannot tell me that bias didn’t influence our vassals’ decision to ask you to be their king.”

Jon sighs. “Aye. So what do you propose?”

“An edict establishing the following laws: I am queen until death or any decision on my part to step down. My true born children, in order of birth regardless of sex, shall follow me. In the event of a lack of legitimate issue, the succession should go as follows: Jon Stark, eldest sibling of the current monarch and all his legitimate children in order of birth, followed by the next eldest, Princess Arya Stark and her true born children, followed up finally by Prince Brandon and any children he might produce. This shall be the mode of succession for House Stark, the crown of the North, Winterfell, and any and all lower titles henceforth.”

“That won’t be popular,” Jon remarks, “Male preference has been the tradition in the North for as long as there have been lords and kings.”

“I won’t dictate the traditions of other Houses. There will be no expectation of our vassals to adopt these customs within their own family. But with the uncertainty of it all, we need to have as much established and maintained as possible. I’ll admit, though, I am hoping your popularity with the lords shall ease this somewhat.”

“And if it doesn’t?” He asks.

“Then I may be open to negotiation, giving Bran preference over Arya.” She sighs. “But we need this presented and approved quickly. I want oaths made and papers signed.”

“Assuming that works, what of The North itself?” Jon inquires, “You have your plans for the Free Folk, but what of the rest of the war effort, what of surviving the winter?”

Sansa cups her brow. “The difficulty there is that I don’t have enough information to make proper decisions now. So much of how we must handle both matters depends on too much. The state of our domain now, and even discerning what constitutes our domain and what does not. Vale Lords took up a cry for me, but they are not the only Vale Lords, and none of them had the name Arryn. Which is why I requested Lord Royce’s company for supper.”

“I had wondered about that, Your Grace,” Davos says, “It was Lord Baelish at your side during the battle, after all.”

“Lord Baelish is the one who sold Sansa to the Boltons,” Jon states, sneering, “He’s a traitor and a snake.”

“But useful,” Sansa says, “But ruthless and ambitious and untrustworthy, of course. And we’re going to need him. But I also want to establish some… boundaries… with him, and try to see just how independent of him I can be in serving our interests. And we couldn’t rely on Littlefinger alone when it comes to the Vale, regardless of his character. I know from firsthand experience that the lords and ladies there don’t trust him. After my Aunt Lysa died, Lord Royce led a group of the most powerful lords and ladies to the Eyrie to make inquiries and challenge Baelish for regency. Baelish technically has sovereignty, but much of that depends on the goodwill of Lord Royce and his allies. The Waynwoods, the Hunters, the Corbrays, the Templetons… They and more distrust Littlefinger and are close with Royce. And Royce is the co-guardian of my cousin Robert. He’s the one fostering him and overseeing his education. So I want to establish his loyalty and ties immediately. As for Littlefinger… I have a great number of secrets on him. Secrets he can’t afford Lord Royce to know. That includes the fact that he is responsible for my match with Ramsay Bolton. I have Royce and his friends with us, then I have more leverage over Littlefinger. Who I may need elsewhere.”

“So the plan in the Vale is to get them to name you their queen as well? Have Lord Arryn and all his vassals bend the knee?” Davos asks.

Sansa nods. “Whether or not we can acquire the Vale’s fealty greatly affects our chances against the White Walkers. And the status of the Riverlands shall as well.”

“You want to put Baelish to work there?” Jon eyes her carefully.

Sansa hesitates. “That’s even more complicated. Littlefinger is officially Lord of Harrenhal and Lord Paramount of the Riverlands by Joffrey’s decree and Lannister goodwill. He was named as such on the basis that my Tully relations were traitors and their rights forfeit. So to recognize Littlefinger as a lord with the proper clout there could be seen as endorsing the disenfranchisement of House Tully. And I’d prefer to restore it.

“I know enough to know the Freys are loathed in the Riverlands. And frankly, it makes me uncomfortable having the lands bordering us at The Neck, ones that were once officially recognized as part of my brother’s kingship, held in any way by Lannister loyalists. If we were to reclaim the Riverlands, it could be a great advantage: they’d serve as a proper buffer between us and the Iron Throne, we’d have more men and resources, weaken prospective enemies. But I can’t be sure if that won’t be more trouble than it’s worth. My Uncle Brynden and his army has been defeated and Riverrun has been taken, the Freys have all the remaining Tullys, and the Riverlands have been in chaos since before the War of the Five Kings even began. And my Uncle Edmure may not even be much of an asset at this point. Riverrun fell thanks to him agreeing to surrender it to the Freys, and even his actions during my brother’s reign had negative consequences on Robb’s war strategy. The Riverlander Houses, regardless of their hatred of the Freys, may be hesitant to serve him. If my Uncle Blackfish were still alive, that would be different matter, but…” She shakes her head.

“Then why bother with them at all?!” Tormund says, “Seems it’s a waste of time.”

“Because the Riverlands are right below us, between the North and the Vale, and House Frey rules right at our border,” Jon answers, “If the Lannisters choose to attack us, they have the ideal position to do it from. And we need to neutralize that threat as much as possible.”

Sansa nods. “Littlefinger insists the Lannisters are weak, but they were able to send the Kingslayer to Riverrun with an army to aid the Freys. And Cersei loathes me. She believes me responsible for Joffrey’s death. And they may still have the Tyrells in their corner. Margaery and I were friends but… If Lord Mace believes it benefits his family to throw their weight behind the Lannisters again, he will do it. And if we have a significant force attacking us within the heart of our domain, then that leaves us far less equipped to withstand the White Walkers and winter.”

“So we need the Vale officially under us and the Riverlands at the very least neutralized, if not taken altogether.” Davos Seaworth licks his lips. “Aye, Your Grace, I understand your concerns. The Vale shall have to be a priority. I fear the Riverlands may be dead weight if we take them, though.”

“It may serve us better to place a lord there in power, name them an ally rather than a part of our nation,” Jon muses, “The problem is, who? There’s all the issues with Lord Baelish. And not only is your Uncle Edmure unreliable, he’s both connected to you by blood, and House Tully was sworn to Robb. We’d need someone strong, popular, untied to the Lannisters directly, well-connected, and capable of keeping things stable there. With an old name and good resources.”

“Exactly. And I’m afraid I have no idea who I’d pick. Houses that spring to mind are Blackwood, Mallister, and Piper, but I know little of their current status or the characters of their lords.”

“It may actually serve us to simply get rid of the Freys and allow a resulting power vacuum to run its course,” Ser Davos suggests, “They’ll be busy fighting each other and making the Riverlands difficult to traverse for the Lannisters.”

“Yes, but if the Lannisters find and prop up another puppet House like the Freys and throw their support there, we’ll be back to square one,” Jon points out. “But, at the same time… It may make it difficult to establish strong relations with the Riverlands at all if you were seen as disloyal, Sansa. Supporting any House other than Tully would be seen as betraying your own blood and make any House hesitant to make, let alone honor, any agreements they may make with us. After all, why would they trust a queen who was willing to supplant her own uncle?”

She hadn’t thought of that. Sansa groans and tries to think. “Perhaps if we… What if we restored Edmure and House Tully while arranging for the true power to be with someone more capable? Make a new Blackfish out of another lord.”

“That could be risky,” Davos warns.

“All of this is.” Sansa takes a deep breath. “We’ll put a pin in fine-tuning that, then. We need to figure out what other immediate actions we can take here. I want to send the Watch men and supplies, but I need to evaluate what we even have to do that. I think men who fought for the Boltons could be a source of manpower… The prisoners we currently have, and such. We’ll also need to secure Karhold, Last Hearth, and the Dreadfort. Castellans will have to be selected. And there’s the council…” She looks down at the map table, scanning the North, then looks at the three men before her. “Ser Davos, I thought of perhaps naming you Master of Ships, given your history. You aided Stannis with the construction and maintenance of his fleet, correct?”

The Onion Knight reddens. “Aye, Your Grace, though I wonder how much of an endorsement that truly is. His fleet ultimately burned.”

“Thanks to the Lannisters wildfire and Tyrion’s plot,” Sansa recalls, “But we won’t be sailing anywhere that produces wildfire, and Tyrion is who knows where.”

She points to an area in the Southeast. “White Harbor is our biggest city, our biggest port. I’d have you evaluate it. And possibly Deepwood Motte and Barrowton as well. We haven’t heard from the Ironborn in a while—” Her heart twinges, thinking of Theon, “If Theon Greyjoy was successful in his return home, they may be no threat, but if not… They might see the Boltons’ downfall as an opportunity. If so, we’ll need to cover ourselves on both borders.” She looks at Davos again. “Do you agree? I know nothing of ships.”

“And I know nothing of the North, My Queen,” he says, “And I’m…” He reddens further.

“What?”

“I’m barely literate, Your Grace,” he confesses, “I only started learning me letters in the last couple of years or so, and I struggle with them still, like a little child. I may be a poor Master of anything. I doubt I could write you letter properly explaining what is happening.”

Her stomach sinks. “I see. We may have to partner you with someone else.”

She groans. “We’ll need to meet with Winterfell’s new maester, too. Gods… I never learned his name.” She hadn’t wanted to. The Boltons brought him in. She’d have to speak with many former servants, to properly evaluate Winterfell’s state. There were still many old Stark servants here, but their were Bolton ones as well. Sansa believes she can gain their loyalty, given how her husband’s family treated their staff, but it still makes things uneasy. “I’ll need to offer Northern Lords positions. I’d like to make Lord Royce Master of War, but I fear that might be a misstep—”

“—It would,” Jon cuts in, “It will need to be a Northerner. That’s where most of our fighting will take place, and we need a man who knows this land.”

“And the best generals Robb had were Bolton, Umber, and Karstark,” Sansa gives a bitter laugh. “I suppose there’s Lord Glover…”

“I don’t know if I can stomach him at this table, after what he said about you,” Jon snarls.

“Lady Mormont said something similar when we were on Bear Island, and you stomach her perfectly well,” Sansa reminds him.

“Lady Mormont is a child who likely has a very poor understanding of what happened to you and still ultimately aided us in our time of need,” Jon answers, “Not a full-grown man perfectly aware of the concepts of hostages and rape who swore loyalty to our House for years, abandoned us, and publicly smeared you before the entire North after you won us back Winterfell.”

“But if he’s the best man for the job, we may have to make amends.”

Jon wrinkles his nose and sits back in his chair, eyes scanning the maps. They flicker for a moment. “What about Howland Reed? He has guarded The Neck for decades, he was one of Father’s greatest friends, he’d be in a prime position to tell us of the Riverlands, he has many victories under his belt. He didn’t come to us, sure, but he actually may have a viable excuse for that, given how remote Greywater Watch is. Father always said he would have died twenty times over if not for Lord Reed.”

Sansa smiles. “That… That could work quite well. Then there’s Master of Coin, Master of Laws, Master of Whispers… I have to fit Littlefinger in there somewhere, you realize that.”

Jon cringes. “Aye, I do.”

“What’s ‘Master of Laws’ do?” Tormund interrupts. They quickly explain the diplomatic duties. The ruddy-haired wildling grins. “That’s that, then. Make him that. That way you can send him to the Riverlands as Master of Laws instead of whatever those Lannister shits named him.”

Sansa relaxes slightly, pleased. “That’s a good idea. But you know, he was also Master of Coin for the crown for a long time…”

“The crown was left in horrible debt,” Davos says, “Stannis used to speak of it.”

“And I don’t want that man anywhere near your wealth. I don’t put it past him to make a pauper of you to gain leverage,” Jon insists. Sansa nods.

“Master of Laws it is, then. For Master of Coin… Perhaps Lord Manderly? White Harbor has always been our wealthiest territory, and he’s kept it afloat over the past several years.”

Jon nods. “And Master of Whispers?”

She groans. “How do I choose a spymaster from a sea of people who abandoned us in our darkest hour?”

Jon reaches out and places his hand on hers, “We’ll find someone, I’m sure.”

“You may also want to bring on general advisors, Your Grace,” Davos suggests, “It would help you get to know your lords and choose roles there, after all.”

“Create some Warden titles, as well,” Jon tells her, “Tormund might be named Warden of the Gift, for instance. And give a warden title to Lord Royce as well.”

She nods. “Alright then. There’s also the matter of Karhold and the Dreadfort.” She thinks for a second and looks at Davos. “Ser Davos, you hold territories in the Stormlands, correct?”

“Aye, My Lady, Stannis named me Lord of Rainwood and gave me a Keep and Lands in Cape Wrath. My wife Marya rules them. But if you’re thinking I might bring the Stormlands into your domain—”

“No, of course not. They’re too close to the Crownlands, too far from here. But you say your wife rules for you?”

“Aye.”

“Is she proficient?”

“She is.”

“Well, with Stannis gone, the Stormlands must be in disarray… That leaves your wife and children rather vulnerable, does it not?”

Davos’s expression darkens. “Yes,” he says in a guarded tone, “I suppose it does, My Lady.”

“What if we transferred your family to the Dreadfort?” She asks, “To serve as my castellans there? They’d probably be safer there— I doubt Cersei will leave many families loyal to Stannis alone for long. I wish to keep the Bolton territories with me as long as possible, you see, but I need someone I can trust running them.”

“You would make my wife Acting Lady of the Dreadfort?”

“If she can do it, yes. There’d be instructions she’d have to follow, customs she’d have to respect, very hard work she’d have to do, but I think that it may serve at least temporarily.”

Davos hesitates. “Perhaps, but there’s the matter of bringing her…”

“You were a smuggler, last time I checked. Surely you of all people can arrange it. And besides, I’m sure you miss your family.”

He looks at his lap. “I haven’t seen them in years. The last time I saw any of them, it was right before my eldest son died at Blackwater.”

Sansa softens her tone. “Then they should be brought as soon as possible. And… if the Dreadfort is not a good fit, then I’ll simply take them as part of my court. Either way, House Seaworth is welcome in the North.”

“I… Thank you, Your Grace.” The Onion Knight keeps staring at his lap.

“What of Karhold, though?” Jon inquires, giving Sansa an odd look.

“Preferably, I’d grant it to House Mormont. I was thinking of perhaps arranging a betrothal between Lady Lyanna and one of the younger Karstark sons. Take one of the young boys as my ward, slate him to marry Lady Lyanna, and officially grant Karhold to the couple on their wedding day. In the meantime, have it run by a proper regent.”

Jon keeps staring at her, and then clears his throat. “Ser Davos, Tormund, Your Grace, if you don’t mind… If we don’t have any pressing immediate matters to discuss before supper… My Queen, I’d speak to you alone, if it pleases you.”

Sansa shrugs. “I suppose so.” Davos and Tormund proved far more useful than she expected, but all of this was meant primarily for Jon anyways. “Yes, I think that’s a good idea. If you gentlemen would excuse us?”

Both of them got to their feet. “Anything we might do for you, Your Grace?”

Sansa smiles. “Yes, if one of you might find a scribe to attend me tonight? I want to start drafting things as soon as possible. Perhaps Winterfell’s current steward?”

“It’ll be done, Your Grace,” Davos promises her, bowing before following Tormund out the door.

Sansa sits back in her chair, relaxing. “I think that went well. I can see why Stannis kept that man around. He’s excellent.”

“How long have you been plotting all of this?”

She looks at her half-brother. His eyes are narrowed, his lips pursed.

“What do you mean?” Did he think there was some greater scheme at play here? There wasn’t. Her goals were exactly as she’d professed them to be, all of her decisions designed to serve them. Well, aside from the choice to make Jon her heir, which had an extra motivation. But she merely hadn’t told him that yet because she’d not had the chance.

“I mean all of this. The plans for absorbing the Vale. Finding a new lord of the Riverlands. Withstanding the Lannisters. The Free Folk in Last Hearth. Davos as Master of Ships and his wife at the Dreadfort. All of these thoughts, these concerns… You didn’t dream them all up in the two days we’ve been here, Sansa. So how long?”

“Oh, by ‘plot’ I thought you meant some sort of subterfuge.” She glances up at the ceiling for a moment, then looks back at him. “I’d say I started thinking about all of this just before we left Castle Black? I realized once we were setting off to retake the North that if we were successful, it would have to be ruled. And there was going to be no end to any of it, between winter and the White Walkers and the Lannisters. I wasn’t going to retake our home just to let it all slip away because we were unprepared to nurse it through the years to come. It was very important. I mean, I saw what happened when things were poorly managed. Cersei and her people were incredibly incompetent. There were angry mobs in the streets of King’s Landing, furious over the lack of food. One day…” She shudders, “One day, the mobs got so bad… the court was separated. I was chased through the streets and nearly violated by a group of men. It seemed like the city might destroy House Lannister before Stannis even arrived. And, well, we’re Starks. We know better than anyone that winter is coming. And winter hardly cares who calls themselves Lord of Winterfell. So I started trying to at the very least figure out what we might need. The Vale matters I started thinking of when I first wrote to Littlefinger— I wasn’t going to accept his help without a plan. The Riverlands things were early on, though I’ve hit a wall there since Brienne’s letter. And of course I had to have a plan for the wildlings, they were our army!”

“So you’ve been mapping out your queenship since Castle Black.” Jon stares at her, amazed.

“My queenship or your kingship. If you were put in power, I intended to make sure I had as many ideas, questions, and thoughts to offer you as I could. I didn’t want to be locked out of your council once we retook the North.”

“That never would have happened.”

Sansa wants to believe this. “Well, I wasn’t sure at the time.”

He sits back and wipes his brow. “Why didn’t you share any of this with me? The Vale army was one thing, but all this too? You really trusted me so little?”

There a moment of silence as she processes the pain in his voice. She’s hurt him. She doesn’t like that. “It… It wasn’t just a matter of trust, Jon. I know nothing of battle, and our odds kept getting worse and… I knew I needed you to be able to concentrate as much as possible on the war. Truly. You already had so much consuming you— traveling, recovering from your death, the Free Folk, trying to figure out how to fight five thousand men with two thousand. I thought, what was the point of distracting you with situations that would never come to pass if you weren’t throwing as much energy as possible into defeating Ramsay? There was— is— so much to worry about, if I talked about it all with you then, it might distract you too much, make it harder for you to prepare for battle. I didn’t even know until the night before if the knights of the Vale were going to make it or not, Riverrun had fallen, lords kept turning us away… It got more and more unikely with each day that we could win at all, and I already felt I wasn’t contributing, I didn’t want to be a distraction as well. If we failed because I kept filling your head with property distribution and Valeman politics instead of letting you focus on what was in front of you, I’d never forgive myself. And— I still had no idea what would happen. I had so little to work off of. Just little ideas for scenarios that might never come to pass. But I always, always planned to support you, Jon. I wanted to be able to give you something substantial instead of a lot of noise. So I resolved to keep quiet until we had something to work off of.”

It’s his turn to look up at the ceiling. “I suppose that makes sense. But…” He looks at her again. “I don’t like you not telling me things.”

“I know,” she replies sadly, “We have so many enemies… But I never thought that you were one of them, Jon. I just had no idea how I could truly help you fight them. I wanted to make sure I wasn’t useless.”

“Sansa…” He reaches out and takes her hand. “You’re not useless.”

“After years made nothing more than a captive and a marriage prize, it’s hard to believe that,” she remarks bitterly, “I spent so much time just waiting to be saved or sold off or killed. Falling into one plot or another. All of it revolving around inheriting Winterfell and sharing someone’s bed so they could take it. In the Vale, I thought I’d finally found my place, that I could finally do something, manuever things, work things to my own interests, do things for myself. Then I was sold off to Ramsay. And the thing was… He kept me locked up all the time. Once he brought me out to the yard to gloat about foiling an escape plan, but otherwise, I was always in that room, waiting for him to arrive and—” She shudders again, “And it made no difference to anyone. None of it mattered. All that mattered was me conceiving a child with Stark blood and my husband’s name and once I’d produced a couple of sons, I wouldn’t even be needed for that. Everything would go on, and my purpose was to simply have sons planted in me. Otherwise, I was a plaything. I was a plaything for Joffrey and Cersei, for Petyr, and Ramsay. And even when I could think of something, it ultimately seemed to do nothing. And then… Jon, when that letter came from Ramsay… The line about his soldiers raping me wasn’t even the second worst thing there. It was his threats to come and slaughter you and all the Free Folk you saved, all because I had run to you. I put a target on you and so many others. And Rickon… Gods, if I had never run away, Rickon might be alive!”

“No,” Jon shakes his head, “I don’t believe that for a moment. The Umbers would have served him up regardless, and Ramsay would have him killed so he couldn’t be a rival to any Bolton claims. Rickon’s death is on the Umbers and the Boltons. No Stark son was safe while the Boltons ruled the North.”

She hangs her head. “Regardless, Ramsay was going to march north to you and the Free Folk because of me. I almost told you to surrender me, that day. But I was so selfish, I asked you to march on Winterfell instead. And so I just… I couldn’t be useless, or a distraction, or anything. I had to do something to make up for the danger I put all of you in.”

“I’m glad you got me to fight, Sansa,” he responds, “You saved me from being a coward. I was going to run away.”

Sansa hugs herself. “If anyone deserves to, it’s you.”

“And you. We both deserve to run away, after everything. But we didn’t. And we’re here now. And countless people are better off for it. And that’s because of you. You’re not useless.”

She smiles slightly. “I hope you’re right. I have no idea what I’m doing—”

“—You have a better idea than I would have. If I wasn’t certain bowing to you was the right decision before, I am now. You’re going to rule very well.”

She squeezes his hand. “We. We are going to rule very well. I’m not doing this without you, Jon. Queen, King, Prince, Princess, either way, we’re doing this together.”

He smiles. “Agreed. But I must ask… Does this mean you’re going to tell me everything now?”

She nods. “Everything. We’ll do it all together, I promise. In fact… I don’t want to be around Littlefinger unless you’re there.”  
He nods. “Alright.”

“And…” She takes a deep breath. “I have something else to confess, Jon. I have another reason for my decision regarding the succession. Why I’ve placed you ahead of Arya and Bran.”

“Oh? It’s not just my overwhelming popularity, then?” He asks, chuckling.

“No. It’s because I…” She hesitates. Jon’s jovial expression melts away.

“What?”

“I don’t want you going off to battle again.”

Jon withdraws his hand at once. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“We’re possibly the only two Starks left. My immediate heir and I cannot be put in an unsafe setting,” she confesses, “I saw you that day, in that… in that sea of men and blood and muck and I… I was so afraid the Vale knights wouldn’t get there. And I remember riding with them to the battle, knowing what your strategy was, and being so relieved that we’d gotten there when we did. You were supposed to be locked down in trenches, drawing attackers to you and commanding your forces to fire the moment anyone got close. You were supposed to be in the back. I thought we’d gotten there before you would have made it into the fray itself. You weren’t supposed to be covered in blood, fending off axes and hammers and blades, surrounded and choked on all sides by Ramsay’s men. We were supposed to have gotten there before any enemy got anywhere near you. I thought we had until I saw it… I saw you, Jon… You looked like you were choking on blood. The Boltons were all around you. Boltons and corpses of your men. That wasn’t supposed to…” She shakes her head. “I knew Rickon was dead. I told you as much the night before. We still have no idea about Bran or Arya. You were all I had. If I lost you… What would I have, really, even if we did ultimately beat Ramsay? I’d have the castle I was raped in and scores of vassals I couldn’t trust. That’s not home, Jon. This can’t be home without the ones I love. This can’t be home without you. And I can’t… I can’t let it happen again, Jon.”

“Sansa—”

“—And why shouldn’t you retire from the battlefield,” she says wildly, feeling righteous, “You’ve fought and won more battles in the last couple of years than most men do in their entire lives. You’ve even died once before! You’ve proven yourself brave and dedicated. No one can doubt your valor. You’ve performed that service! And it’s not like you don’t have anything to offer beyond skill with a blade anyways. And you can still plan battles! Lots of the greatest warriors and generals don’t ride in the front lines. They’re in the back, commanding, making arrangements, adapting, planning, where they’re needed most. Because they’re the only ones who can do what they do. Sure, Robb might have won every battle and rode in where the fighting was thickest, but where did that get him in the end?”

“Sansa, Robb died at your uncle’s wedding.”

“I know, he won all the battles and lost the war in the bedchamber,” she says crossly, “And ultimately all his foolhardiness and courage and fighting got him nowhere. It doesn’t do anyone any good risking your life like that when things would be so much worse for so many if you were to die. We’re already both in enough danger every moment of every day without you rushing headfirst towards an army. And I need you here. I need you alive, Jon.”

“Sansa, I can’t ask men to fight when I’m not willing to do it myself.”

“Why? I manage it. As you yourself pointed out, I’m the reason we won. And you’ve already proven you’re willing to do it by doing it several times! They know!” She shakes her head. “Jon, you’re right: we’re surrounded by enemies. My best ally has been Littlefinger. Almost every person we know has betrayed, abandoned, or misused us at some point. Every person who looks at us sees tools and opportunities, not people. I can’t rule that way. Maybe you’d be fine without me, but I can’t say the same about you. I need someone, someone I can trust. And you asked to be that person. You fought to be that person. You can’t do that and then just go and get yourself killed for no good reason, Jon. You can’t put a crown on my head, promise me that I have you, then rush off to have yourself stabbed again. You made the decision to give me all this responsibility and power, you chose to make me trust you. You can’t do that to me and take the one piece of support I have. You can’t let me end up surrounded by our enemies alone. It’s not fair. It’s cruel.”

He gapes at her. And Sansa hopes she’s won. She wipes her eyes and tries to gain back some composure. “So, you are, for all intents and purposes, crown prince of the North. And since the queen cannot be without her heir, your safety has to be maintained. Until I have a child, you owe it to the North not to endanger yourself by fighting on the front lines.”

“Sansa, that’s unfair.”

“You chose to make me queen. You could have just stood there and accepted the crown they offered you, and we wouldn’t be here. But you didn’t. You rejected that, you ranted and raved until I became a monarch. You swore to serve me. You gave me both the responsibility and the power this title entails. And as your queen, these are my orders. You will keep yourself as safe as possible, you will not leave me alone to face this. You will remain by my side. You promised it. You said it. ‘Where will we go?’ Well, I don’t go to the front lines. Neither do you. Not anymore.”

His face is awash with pain and anger. “How can I call myself a man, then?”

“A man is more than a blade, Jon. You are more than a weapon.” She bites her lip for a second. “If you want me to believe that I am worth more than what Ramsay Bolton wanted from me, then you have to believe that you are worth more than a body count.”

She turns away then, hurting. “Go ahead and hate me. But don’t expect me to trust you and then increase the risk of me losing you entirely.”

There’s silence for a while. Then he curses under his breath.

“Gods, Sansa…” She hears him push back his chair and rise. A second later, he’s standing over her, hands on her shoulders. “I can’t hate you. I just… I always placed so much value on serving, on courage, on being ready to risk my life for others.”

She looks up at him. “You should be ready to live your life for others as well, if you’re truly brave. Anyone can die, Jon. Seven Hells, you’ve already done that! But living is so much harder. Robb died, left the North to the Boltons, and he isn’t the one who has to struggle to clean up the mess he left. We do. Dying is easy. Running is easy. Hurting people is easy. Doing what everyone tells you is the right thing, regardless of the consequences, is easy. Doing what others can’t, carrying on, risking being seen as a coward and living for others isn’t easy. If you’re so brave, then you can be brave without getting sliced up. I’m not asking you to sit idle. I know you’d risk your life for others. But are you willing to keep it for others? How much suffering would have the world been spared if good men like you hadn’t died in battle?”

Jon looks her in the eyes. “Sansa, there’s always going to be danger, to be risks. Hell, I could trip on the stairs and bash my head in tomorrow.”

“Yes, I know. But you’re less likely to die walking down stairs than running headfirst into a crowd of men who want you dead.” She faces him. “Just… Just tell me now, Jon. Can I trust you, or am I alone. I need to know now. If you decide I can’t, then I’ll make you a Snow again, I’ll give you a group of men and send you to some dangerous border to get killed in service to the North. And we’ll both be alone.”

He bows his head for a moment, sighing. “No, Sansa… You… You can trust me.” He waits for a moment and looks into her eyes. “Can I trust you?”

“What are you asking of me, with that question?”

“No more of this, no more manipulations. We do this together, and you tell me everything.”

She nods, smiling. “That’s what I want, Jon. It has been since the day I arrived at Castle Black.”


End file.
